Jonathan Craig - The Case of the Petticoat Murder

“Probably disguising it,” I said. “Maybe using a handkerchief or something over the mouthpiece.”

“Yeah. You come across any Albert Millers so far?”

“No.”

“Well, the chances are it's just some sorehead taking out a little spite on him. Mr. Miller's probably got some enemies, and his enemies have got some ideas. We get more spite stuff all the time, it seems like.”

“Still, the sender knew who was carrying the squeal,” I said. “Usually spite calls end up with the Commissioner or the Chief of Police.”

“Or the Mayor,” Sid said. “He gets a lot of interesting stuff, that guy.”

“Thanks, Sid,” I said. “I'll check it out.”

“Well, don't break your neck on it. One will get you fifty that the worst thing you find in Miller's desk will be a couple of dirty books.”

“Maybe I'll wish I'd taken you up,” I said.

“I doubt it,” he said. “Between you and me, you're just not that lucky.”

“There's always a first time,” I said. “Thanks again, Sid.”

After I had phoned the BCI for a check on Albert Miller, I returned Nadine Ellison's folder to the homicide file, speared a note on Stan's desk pen to let him know where he could reach me, and left the squad room for a trip uptown to West Seventy-fourth Street.

ALBERT MILLER'S apartment house was a five-story. A walk-up just east of Riverside Drive, a very compact, modest-looking brick structure completely dwarfed by the much taller buildings surrounding it on all sides.

I glanced at the row of mailboxes in the foyer, noted Miller's apartment number, and walked across the deskless lobby to the stairway.

The man who answered my knock on the door of apartment 2-D was about an inch taller than I, and so abnormally broad through the shoulders as to appear almost misshapen. He was about fifty, with coarse gray hair, a slightly florid face, and a rather blunt nose that listed a little to the right. He wore unusually heavy-rimmed, perfectly round eyeglasses whose tinted lenses were just thick enough to slightly distort the dark eyes behind them.

“Mr. Albert Miller?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yes. What is it, please?”

“Police officer,” I said, showing him my badge. “My name's Selby.”

He frowned. “At this hour?” he said. “Do you realize it's almost midnight?”

“Sorry, Mr. Miller,” I said. “May I come in?”

He hesitated for a moment, then opened the door a little wider and stood back. “I hope this visit is justified,” he said. “I was just going to retire.”

His flat, slightly nasal voice held an edge of controlled irritation; but I got the distinct impression that what he really felt was not so much irritation as apprehension.

“Better close the door, Mr. Miller,” I said.

He stared at me resentfully, then made an impatient gesture and shut the door.

I glanced about the room, then crossed to one of the two sling chairs opposite the small television set and sat down. In addition to the sling chairs and television set, the room contained an outsized sofa bed, a sort of freeform cocktail table with a red-plastic top, a small cellaret, a pair of captain's chairs at either side of the hall door, and an exquisite French Provincial desk so beautiful that it completely dominated the room and caused the rest of the furniture to look like just so many leftovers after a forced auction in the warehouse district.

Miller's face was that of a man who has been grievously imposed upon.

“I trust you'll find that chair comfortable, Mr. Selby,” he said. “If there's anything I can do to add to the pleasure of your visit, just let me know.”

“Why so hostile, Mr. Miller?” I said.

“Hostile?” he said. “I'm sure you don't mean that, Mr. Selby. Under the circumstances, I'd say your choice of words is an extremely poor one.”

“Maybe you're right,” I said, while I studied him. “Cops aren't any great shakes in the word department Most of their work is with their feet.”

“I can well believe it,” Miller said. “And now that we've taken care of the amenities, may I ask the reason for this honor?”

“You know a girl named Nadine Ellison?” I asked. “If you do, I'd like to ask you a few questions about her.” I was watching carefully for reaction, but the thick, tinted lenses of his glasses made his eyes difficult to read.

“About whom did you say?” he asked.

“Nadine Ellison,” I said. “She was murdered this morning, Mr. Miller. You may have read about it in the papers.”

“No,” he said. “As a matter of fact, haven't even so much as glanced at a newspaper all day.”

I see.”

“But let us assume I had,” he said. “Of what possible interest could your Nadine Ellison be to me?”

“Are you telling me you didn't know her?”

“I am indeed, Mr. Selby.”

“It's possible you knew her under another name.”

He started to say something, then shrugged. “All things are possible, of course,” he said. “Even that.”

“She's been known to use the name of Norma Edwards,” I said.

He shook his head. “That's equally unfamiliar, Mr.Selby. Would you care to try again?”

“She lived in the Village,” I said. “On Bleecker.”

He glanced at the hall door rather pointedly, then sighed and sat down in one of the captain's chairs. “Mr. Selby, is it being excessively optimistic on my part to hope that you'll eventually enlighten me as to the nature of your call?”

“See if this rings any bells,” I said, and then described Nadine carefully and in detail.

“She would seem to be a remarkably attractive young woman,” he said. “She would also seem to be no one of my acquaintance.”

“Even with the best descriptions, Mr. Miller, it's some-times a little hard to—”

“Then why bother to give me one?”

I leaned back in the sling chair and took a deep breath, wondering why it was that Miller's cop-baiting and overly precise speech should annoy me so much. A cop is supposed to hear what people say, not to be irked by what they say or the way they say it.

A cop's job is to listen, not to react.

“Miller,” I said, “just what the hell is bugging you?”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You've been giving me a hard time ever since here, Miller. From here on in, cut out the bullshit.”

He was as powerfully built as any man I'd ever talked to, and it was plain he'd never had to take very much of the kind of talk I was giving him now. He seemed not to believe his own ears.

“I beg—” he began again. “What?”

“I'm not the kind of cop who tiptoes into a place with his hat in his hand and touching his forelock every time some citizen speaks a civil word to him,” I said. “I treat people just exactly the way I'd expect to be treated if things were the other way around.”

“That's very… very commendable,” Miller said. “Perhaps I've been under something of a… I think I owe you an—”

“All you owe me is a little cooperation,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, nodding almost eagerly. “Yes, of course.”

“That's fine,” I said. “And now that we've really got the amenities out of the way, tell me whether you have any serious enemies.”

“Enemies?”

“Yes — enemies. Say, someone who might go to almost any length to embarrass you.”

He shook his head. “I haven't any enemies at all,” he said. “That is, none of which I am aware. It's always conceivable I may have offended someone unknowingly, of course…”

“But no one who's really out to get you?”

“Why, no, Mr. Selby. Certainly not.”

“Think about this very carefully,” I said. “You in any kind of woman trouble? How about your job? Anybody you work with have a beef against you? Think it over.”